transmogrification
by li'l fat necrosis
Summary: "There was a dirty, dirty little pig running around though. Escaping his grasps and screaming obscenities at him- obstructing him from completely his mission. Bad, bad, bad filthy." Written for Skydork. [Outlast: Chris x Miles.]


"Red on red, on red, on red," Chris almost sings it to himself, making his way down the hall. "-and battle, misfortune, and revenge. Violence makes, judged by the blood, not the words. Words lie, blood is red, on red."

Miles swallows, nervously biting his lip until he can feel blood filling his mouth. He didn't notice though, all of his senses focusing on the ogre of the man only thirty feet away from him. The locker he was hiding it felt cold and restrictive, ready to fall apart any moment and give him away to the monster. He wouldn't be surprised if it did, he'd even bet money on it if it did.

Everything in the fuckhole just wanted to fuck him over, to throw him in the face of danger with no ways of protecting himself. Some sadistic god was enjoying his pain and fear, mocking his naive hope for security. His thoughts went back to his family- would they ever learn what happened to his body, or would the religious nutjob burn down the building along with his corpse?

Maybe the swat team he saw earlier got past the Walrider and they'll find his body, all tore up and dismembered around the building. The ones Doctor Trager has, and the ones Chris Walker will play around with. Or, he'd run into the other cannibalistic lunatics.. or worse, the necro guy will have his way with him. Maybe even the twins. Oh what fun to imagine all the ways he will be tortured and his body played with after his death. It brought so relief to think about things like this.

Minutes passed, and his camera soon began beeping erratically. Miles' mouth felt dry, remembering that he hadn't had any batteries left and his camera would surely die without it quickly. He felt stupid for wasting so much of it already; there were so many times where he could've saved the battery and times where he should've pulled it out. He didn't need to film himself breaking and entering into the building, or film the one straight-jacketed man fucking the dismembered security officer. The last one went recorded for too long; he doubted that a lawyer or random, every day innocent minded joe needed to actually see it to decide that the place was fucked up. He needed to preserve them for as long as he possibly could.

After he was sure that the man was gone, Miles made his way from the locker and down to the hall, staying low to the ground and as close to the walls as he could. He thought of leaving the place; of knocking one of the windows open with a chair, and just jumping from it. His chances of surviving would be slim, but he figured that they were probably worse here. Maybe, he'd be able to get back to his car, get home to his family, upload the video, and attending online therapy for as long as he'd live. It was a pleasant thought, but several other, more negative and realistic thoughts popped played in his head. If he were able to, if at all, break a window open- he'd more than likely just crush his legs from the impact.

Also, he doubted he'd have the strength to even throw the chair. His body felt heavy, and the random bouts of adrenaline was taking it's toll of him. He was tired, though he wasn't sure if it was because of the fucked up shit he keeps having to see and endure or because of the amount of physical abuse.

* * *

Chris was walking through a battlefield.

Protect the civilians from the enemy. Don't let the enemy hurt the civilians. Scare off the enemy. Don't let it reach the local town.

His thought played back to him like a record on repeat, never missing a note. It kept him focused.

His mission was going to completed tonight. He'd killed and beheaded all the civilians that could be tainted by the enemy. He was so close to finishing the mission- all he had to do was protect and eliminate the civilian that seemed to like to slip through his fingers like a dirty pig. No matter how many times he's promised that he wouldn't hurt him and that'd he just wanted to protect him, he wouldn't listen to him.

He felt anger when he kept escaping him. The man didn't understand; he was making all of it worse. Chris would never be able to finish his mission if he didn't remove all the civilians from harm. He wouldn't forgive himself if they got hurt.

There was a dirty, dirty little pig running around though. Escaping his grasps and screaming obscenities at him- obstructing him from completely his mission. Bad, bad, bad filthy. Should he consider him an enemy- a traitor to all civilians? He was going to ruin his mission, cause the death of local towns- he was enemy?

 _Shoes squeaking, heavy breathing. Thirty feet._

"Someone's here!" He screamed, taking off running. He could feel the corridor shaking, the glass underneath him cracking further. Doors slammed loudly once they- the local civilians- heard him coming. Were they going to protect the enemy- would they let themselves and the others be contaminated and die a painful death?

Were they corrupted- already completely ruined by the Walrider? Was he behind on completing his mission late- did it already have victims? No, no, no-

He had to complete his mission, protect the civilians, complete his mission, protect the civilians, complete his mission, locate and remove the filthy whore.

Transparent bodies of his former comrades, previous members that swore to protect the civilians with him, they sported all around him, running along side with him. "Scout the perimeter, then isolate the target."

And then they vanished, like paint in a jar of water that gets stirred until the colour gets mixed that causes everything in the jar turns an ugly color of brown, and the water is tainted.

 _Doors slamming, camcorder beeping. Ten feet. Target located._

"Little pig, little pig, no more escape."

* * *

 **Author's Note: For my god. This story was never actually going to go anywhereand I'm okay with this.**


End file.
